The Nephilim Parchments

PROLOGUE

Outside the small hut the China sun hung hot and glowing in a cerulean sky.

Inside it was dark, and the smell of sweet smoke hung thick in the air like a thin veil. Chi Lin kept her eyes to the floor and bowed as she shuffled toward the old man seated on a mat. She did not look up into his eyes, as was proper for an obedient Chinese girl, but her heart burned. She needed what the old man could give her. Yet she had to be careful, very careful, not to alienate him.

Come forward, my daughter, the old man said as he lit a candle.

Chi Line obeyed.

You may speak, he told her in a raspy voice. What can this old priest do for you?

I have come a long way, revered one. She kept her eyes cast down. "I have come because it is said that you talk to the gods—and that the gods hear you.

Have you brought the sacrifice?

Chi Lin nodded. The breeding pig is tied outside. He heart pounded, and she was glad she didn’t have to meet his gaze, because she might see how she’d come by the sacred pig.

And the other?

Mutely she reached inside her sleeve and withdrew a small jar containing the thick brown powder made from poppies. She’d paid a month’s wages for it, but if he could influence the gods on her behalf, it would be worth it.

The aged priest took the ceramic jar. When his hand brushed hers she noticed that his skin was dry and fragile, like ancient parchment. He caressed the jar as one would a lover’s hand, then asked, What do you want from the gods, my daughter?

Even with her head bowed, defiance rose within her. She would have to be careful how she asked. Proper Chinese girls never forgot that men were the ones who ruled and who held absolute power over body and soul. She desperately wanted her husband’s favor, she’d made up her mind to do whatever it took to get it, and she knew what Franklin wanted above all other things. I am barren, revered sir.

You have been with your husband?

Many times—but still I do not conceive.

Where do you live? the priest asked abruptly.

Bashan.

The sudden silence in the hut wrapped itself around Chi Lin like a tight fitting glove. Suddenly, she had trouble breathing and took several deep breaths. Fear welled up inside of her. Had she said something improper?

You came far for nothing, rasped the old man. Your local priest can sacrifice to ensure that your womb will be filled.

Chi Lin’s fear flared into panic.

She couldn’t let the priest dismiss her—not until she received what she had come for. She dropped to her knees and bowed until her forehead touched the edge of the mat. "A male child, holy one. It must be a boy."

You may look at me, directed the priest.

She raised her eyes slowly and forced herself to keep them wide with humility and gratitude. He was completely bald and older than she had even imagined. There was also a milky film over his eyes,

He was blind!

Her disappointment tasted foul in her mouth. How could this sightless, foolish old opium addict help her? And after all she had done to gain access to him.

"Your husband is qwei lo, the priest continued, using the colloquial term that meant foreign devil. It wasn’t a rebuke, merely a statement of fact. He lost a wife and unborn child, a daughter, and chose you to take their place. In the night, he holds you and weeps—and you cannot console him."

Chi Lin’s mouth dropped open.

How could he possibly know?

This foreigner came to China to speak about his God—to change our ways and fill our land with another Light.

He is a Christian. But I am not. I still believe in the power of the old gods. That is why I have come. Chi Lin prayed silently that the old man did not know her other secrets. Especially about her father. If he did, he would surely send her away.

You have chosen wisely. The priest inclined his head, as if he was listening to someone talking.

Chi Lin took a chance and darted her eyes. She saw only the meager trappings of the hut. There was no one else with them, and there was nothing more than the normal sounds of the isolated village outside.

Sweat trickled between her small breasts.

You are fortunate, the priest whispered. The gods want very much to favor you.

Her heart leaped. Then they will grant me a son?

Much more than that, my daughter—

His cryptic message made no sense to her, but she didn’t care—the gods would grant her heart’s desire. And Franklin would love her. One day her son would live with his father in America, away from the stink and injustices of China. When her female babies were thrown into the rivers, in bags weighted with rocks, it would not hurt so much because she had a son in a place where the ancient gods could not touch him.

I will do whatever you ask, she whispered to the priest."

The old man nodded. "Yes you will. No matter how frightened you become, you must do exactly as I say."

Chi Lin lay on her mat rigid with fear, but wild with anticipation.

This was to be the night the gods would visit her and give her a son.

It was written in the stars in the moonless sky. And it had shown up in the tea leaves when she’d washed out the teapot earlier.

Franklin was away, in another village.

The god would come to her unnoticed.

In spite of the fact that it was the middle of winter, the hut was hot. Yet, she shivered, because she was naked—and because she was hours away from fulfillment. She reached for the small teacup next to the mat and finished off the amber-colored liquid in one long gulp. It burned all the way down, and her eyes watered.

She was suddenly lightheaded.

She smiled and set the teacup down.

The drink she distilled from almonds was Franklin’s favorite.

She shut her eyes tightly and chanted the words the blind priest had taught her. Her litany went on for hours, but she never wearied.

Just before 2 a.m. something came into the hut.

She was no longer alone.

The flow of words stopped abruptly. What if Franklin had returned?

She opened her eyes and saw a shape—a form like a man’s, but not a man’s. The shape that was darker than the night leaned down over her naked body, and she clenched her eyes shut again, because all she had seen had been its eyes.

They were orange, the color the China sun had been in her dream, when she had seen the cloud shaped like a giant mushroom that grew out of the belly of the earth and blotted out the ocher-gray sky.

The being breathed, and her flesh constricted, suddenly taut along her belly. Her fear was so palpable, she almost gagged. What if the god ripped her apart, from the inside out?

Reason prevailed. She was needed to nurture the baby. There was no need for alarm.

Still—

She sought to fill her mind with the litany the old priest had taught her, but all coherence had fled. Other words came instead—words Franklin had taught her. Jesus loves me, this I know—

The shape that hovered above her recoiled.

Her face stung, as if it had been slapped, yet no hand had touched her!

Chi Lin squeezed her thin lips tight, so as not to cry out. Slowly, sanity returned, and with it resolve. It would be over in minutes. Afterward, the boy-child she had been promised would be hers.

She was wrong.

It took hours.

Just before dawn, something rippled along her skin.

She was exhausted, but still she shuddered, half in pain, half in joy, like a king about to hold a great treasure.

The being crawled over her, grew large again.

Chi Lin gasped and arched her back.

Franklin was gentle, but this being—-

She gripped the edge of the mat, balled her fists, and bit her lip until it bled.

The smell of fresh blood filled the hut, and there was an odd, guttural, wailing sound, like the wind as it whipped across the desert. The being flecked the drops of blood off her lip. Even though her eyes were closed, she sensed that the god tasted it.

At last his assault was over, and he withdrew.

She gagged, because of her pain, and because of the acrid smell that had invaded the hut. It was as if a thousand matches had been lit, and she couldn’t get the stench out of her nostrils. Tears escaped from the corner of her eyelids.

She didn’t know how long she lay crying, but at some point she realized she was alone again.

Relief flooded over her. Yet, she didn’t move.

Gradually, the rapid thudding of her heart slowed, and her breathing changed from gasps to sighs.

Hours later, the fire in her belly still burned like a blacksmiths coals. She slowly laid her palm across her abdomen and smiled. From far away a wild dog howled. Her womb was full, and in nine months she would have the son she wanted, of that she was certain.

Franklin would never know.

She wondered if his god did.

Far back in my childhood

the struggle began.

(de Monade, Giordano Bruno)

CHAPTER 1

The Sinai, October 1948

Benjamin Kingman almost missed the entrance to the cave.

But the early morning sun reflecting off a shiny object half buried in the pulverized limestone and marl caught his eye. The tall, wiry Jew bent over and, pulling the soft paintbrush he carried for just such a purpose from the rear pocket of his khaki shorts, he methodically brushed the parched earth away from the partially oxidized piece of metal.

Once he had it entirely exposed his heart beat so rapidly he felt the throbbing in his ears. His whole body tingled with the sudden infusion of adrenaline. Praise God, he muttered as he squatted down in the dust, "I knew Qumran revealed only a portion of what this ocean of sand has hidden in her depths."

The object was a sword—the type carried by Roman Centurions. Even though he was only twenty-three, he’d been an archaeologist long enough to know a treasure when he saw it.

Carefully, he began to dig some more and within a few moments he’d uncovered another treasure: a goblet made of pure silver. Holding the sword in his left hand and the silver cup reverently in his right, he put his face close to a small, elongated opening and sniffed. The air was musty but not rank. He decided to probe further. Setting the artifacts to the side gently, as if they were objects that could easily be damaged instead of ones that had survived almost two millennia virtually unscathed, he continued digging into the side of the cliff.

At dawn, the air had been cool, about sixty degrees, and there had been a thick, vaporous canopy hovering over the great salt sea, called Bahr Lut, the sea of Lot, by the Arabs. Because of the high concentration of marl in the limestone deposits, and because of the lack of pollutants in the desert air, the yellow-orange rays of sunrise had produced a dramatic and breathtaking scene. The albescent mist was striated with ocher and red variegations that made the mist seem alive. It was as if the mist was a spectral apparition pulsing with blood pumped through arteries of light.

Now, barely three hours later, the hundred degree heat sucked moisture from his body as he worked, like a parasite sucks blood from its host.

After an hour of patient digging, Benjamin had cleared away enough debris so that he could squeeze through the opening. After pausing to take a sip of water from his canteen, he rummaged inside his knapsack and pulled out a flashlight and turned it on to make sure that it worked. Satisfied, he glanced around furtively, and then crawled headfirst into the cave.

The diffuse light penetrated the cloying darkness only a few feet. He was still sweating profusely, in spite of the fact that the temperature inside the cave was considerably cooler than the air outside. He took a deep breath and looked around, then walked forward a few feet. Suddenly, his eyes grew wide and his hands started to shake.

He stared at the bundle of thick linen lying on the floor in front of him for several minutes, then let out the breath he’d been holding and wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. He moved closer and crouched to his knees so as to avoid stirring up the fine, yellow-white dust that covered the floor as he shifted the flashlight to his left hand. He was having difficulty keeping his other hand from trembling as he reached out and grasped the bundle in his right and picked it up gently.

It was heavier than it looked. And as he panned the flashlight over the bundle up close, he realized that it was stained a reddish-copper color in several places. Dried blood, perhaps?

Elated, Benjamin hugged the bundle to his chest and scrambled out of the darkness, into the light. He ignored the implacable heat as he sat cross-legged beside the opening and stared at the bundle. He felt light-headed, almost giddy, and he couldn’t stop his hands from trembling. Finally, unable to restrain himself any longer, he unwrapped the linen. My God, what a find! he muttered, overcome by his discovery.

Two weeks later, Benjamin stared out the window of his hotel room and knew it was time for him to leave Palestine. Below him sprawled the city of Jerusalem. In the distance he could see the Dome of the Rock, the site of the former magnificent temples that Solomon, Zerubbabel and Herod built. The war had ruined and physically divided much of the once beautiful city. But now, barely six months after the last British ship had sailed out of Haifa, leaving the fledgling state of Israel to suckle at the breast of the politicians, new buildings were growing out of the debris like green shoots in a fire ravaged forest. One day the city would be beautiful again.

He sighed and stepped out on the balcony. The sky was a mosaic of crimson colors, steadily receding light, and gauze-like cirro-stratus clouds. On the street below merchants were closing their shops for the evening and people were disappearing into doorways, their lingering silhouettes framed by the long shadows of late afternoon. Time, death, and the desert are unappeasable, he thought as he watched the sun set over the Mount of Olives.

Dusk in the East was peculiar. It had an almost tangible characteristic about it that he had never experienced in America; as if light was taking on corporeal form for a brief tryst with the physical world.

Benjamin knew that the Romans expressed their feelings on the matter by associating the time of twilight with the wolf, usually in a negative context. He smiled, thinking how ironic it was that a man nicknamed The Wolf had dramatically changed his life.

The previous April an itinerant Bedouin of the Taamirah tribe, calling himself Muhammad adh-Dhib, Muhammad the Wolf, had arrived in Jerusalem with a number of what appeared to be very old, brittle, and badly decomposed leather scrolls wrapped in linen cloth. The Wolf and his compatriots had been smuggling goats and various black-market goods from the Trans-Jordan into Palestine, hoping to sell their contraband in Bethlehem. They had stopped along the shores of the Dead Sea in order to stock up with water at the only source of fresh water for miles around— the spring of Ain Feshkha. The route Muhammad and his fellow Bedouins had followed was approximately the same route that Elimdech and his family had followed traveling from Bethlehem to Moab.

While throwing stones into one of the many limestone caves that had been carved out of the cliffs rising above the arid landscape, he had chanced upon several clay urns that later examination proved had been resting undisturbed in the cave for centuries. Muhammad was sure he had stumbled upon something he could sell; he praised Allah for guiding him to the cave a mile north of the old ruin, Kirbet Qumran. Some scholars believed that Qumran—whose Arab pronunciation was very similar to Gomorrah—was the site of the ancient city where Lot and his family resided.

The Wolf had packed the leather scrolls safely away with his other valuable goods and headed off to Bethlehem. And that was how the Dead Sea Scrolls as they were now being referred to had come to light. Lucky for him he’d been only a stone’s throw away when the discovery had been made.

A soft breeze teased his disheveled brown hair and cooled his deeply tanned skin. The dry air absorbed the perspiration his body grudgingly produced like an invisible sponge. He licked his chapped lips and his tongue came away tasting of salt.

He rubbed the back of his neck, then bent forward and stretched. He needed to loosen some of the tightness that had become a permanent companion during the last three months in Israel. The long hours of solitary work had paid off, but the significance of what he’d found had been overshadowed by the discovery at Qumran of ancient scrolls by others. It’s just as well he thought and massaged the tiredness from his legs.

A tingling shiver danced a momentary promenade up and down his spine. He turned and gazed over his shoulder and his eyes were drawn, almost magnetically, to the bundle of linen. Inside were the leather parchments that would make him a hunted man if anyone knew he had them. They were rolled up in the corner, beside the sword and goblet, and they pointed at him like an accusatory finger.

With a sigh, he turned his back on the ancient Canaanite city whose original name meant ‘foundation of peace’ and walked into the room. Lately, his life had been anything but peaceful. When he reached the makeshift desk he’d put together from several old crates and some rough wood planking he stopped and cocked his head, as if he was straining to hear a barely discernible sound. He stayed that way for several minutes, standing silently in the shadows, as the last light of day suffused itself around his body and outlined his lanky form in an orange-red softness that belied the hard tightness he felt inside his chest.

Finally, he sat down wearily and, lost in thought, stared at his journal. His conscience. His salvation. He’d started writing it just after his father died and between its leather covers he’d chronicled his personal war with an enemy older than time.

A war between light and darkness.

A battle in—and for—his soul.

He stared at the words he’d scribbled across the yellowed pages with such intensity that an observer might have thought that he was trying to decipher some kind of magical revelation hidden between the journal’s bindings. And perhaps that was not far from the truth, for the words he had so methodically penned over the past two years were the sutures that bound him securely to the mast of sanity, like Ulysses, and kept him safe from the sirens’ call to oblivion.

He’d also transcribed key passages from the parchments into the journal with painstaking care. It had not been an easy task. He’d been so overwhelmed by what he’d uncovered that he’d also been compelled to write a detailed analysis of what the parchments said. Perhaps one day the full story could be told.

The author of the scrolls had chosen to write in Hebrew instead of Greek. Benjamin was not surprised. Greek would not have done justice to the story. Hebrew, Lashon Ha-Kodesh, The Holy Speech of Tongue, was necessary. In composition, it is simple, pictorial, and poetic. More importantly, Jews believe Hebrew to be the perfect language of God, given by Him to His chosen people so that they might communicate with Him.

Benjamin knew from his college studies that Hebrew was already in spoken and written use when Moses and the Israelites came out of Egypt in approximately 1440 B.C.. During the centuries between that time and the time when the parchments were apparently written the language had become more and more refined, until it was a sophisticated form of communication.

He had also knew that in the late thirties a simple alphabetic Semitic script similar to Hebrew had been discovered on tablets found in northern Syria, at Ras Shamra-Ugarit. While he’d been in Damascus, fortune had smiled down upon him. He’d met one of the men who’d worked with Schaeffer and the other Frenchmen who’d uncovered that tablets at the archaeological site from 1935-37. He’d questioned the man extensively over dinner and several bottles of wine one night and had been given some startling information.

Are you aware, asked the man once they’d finished eating and had begun their second bottle of wine, that even though Hebrew is the language of the Jewish Scriptures, except for a few passages written in Aramaic, nowhere in Scripture is it referred to as such.

Benjamin nodded. It’s called the ‘language of Canaan’ in Isaiah, in order to distinguish it from the Egyptian language, and the authors of II Kings refer to it as the ‘Jewish language’ in order to distinguish it from Aramean.

The man smiled. "Very good, my young friend. You have done your homework. But what I’m about to tell you, I’m sure you don’t know."

Oh? Why is that?

"Because it’s not written in any textbooks—at least, not yet. The Frenchman belched loudly, punctuating his statement and signaling his approval of the meal and the wine, then continued. Not only did we uncover important data that will shed new light on the origins of the alphabet and the Phoenician influence on a variety of languages, including Hebrew, our excavations of the mound also unearthed an incredible corpus of Canaanite religious epic poetry inscribed on clay tablets . . . in alphabetic cuneiform."

Go on, tell me the rest, prodded Benjamin as he poured them both more wine.

The texts are written in Ugaritic and clearly demonstrate the moral depravity and effeteness of the Canaanite culture. They graphically depict the cultures orgiastic nature worship as well as the cults of fertility, replete with serpent symbols and sensuous nudity. Baal, the son of Dagon, an ancient Mesopotamian deity associated with agriculture, and El, son of Baal were the two great gods. Anath, Ashtoreth, also known as Astarte, and Asherah were the three principal variations of the name of the goddess of sensual love, maternity and fertility.

I’ve heard of her, interrupted Benjamin. The Babylonians called her Ishtar, the patroness of sex and war. The name Asherah is mentioned over forty times in Scripture, usually in conjunction with a stripped tree, a pillar, or pole as a phallic symbol.

That’s not the half of it, continued the man, the tenor of his voice suddenly growing somber. We found tablets in which Asherah/Ashtoreth/Anath is repeatedly depicted as a nude woman sitting astride a lion with a lily in her left hand and a serpent in her right. The lily represents grace and sexual appeal, while the serpent symbolizes fecundity. Her shrines, especially those at Byblos, the ancient Phoenician city twenty-five miles north of what is now Beirut, were temples of legalized vice.

"Wasn’t Asherah also the chief goddess of Tyre, over a hundred and fifty years earlier?"

Benjamin’s new found source of information suddenly shuddered and grew pale, as if Benjamin had struck a raw nerve, reminding him of something he’d been trying to forget. The man quickly finished off the last of the wine in his glass then feverishly motioned for the waiter to bring another bottle. He stared at Benjamin with eyes filled with revulsion.

What’s wrong? Are you all right?

The man waited until the waiter had uncorked a fresh bottle of wine and poured them each full glasses before he answered. This goddess, Ashtoreth, is an abomination.

"You mean, was."

I said what I meant.

I don’t understand.

Never mind. Forget it.

Please. I’m sorry if I said anything to offend you. I was only trying—

It isn’t anything you said, interrupted the man, suddenly back in control. It’s what’s inside here . . . the things I saw at the dig that I can’t forget. The things that wake me from sleep in the darkest hours of the night, he added, pointing to his forehead.

At Ras Shamra?

The man nodded. And other digs as well.

Tell me.

The man stared at Benjamin for what seemed like several minutes, but was only a few seconds, then said, "In Tyre, Asherah was given the appellation Qudshu, or the holy one, as if in some perverted moral sense she was a divine courtesan. She was quite the contrary. Her worshippers, led by male prostitutes called qedishim, or sodomites, glamorized lust and murder."

The man paused, and Benjamin had the feeling he was trying to gain courage to speak about something he found personally repugnant.

At Ras Shamra, we discovered a tablet— a fragment of what Dr. Schaeffer eventually named the Baal epic—in which a grotesque story is told. Anath/Asherah leads a fiendishly bloody orgy of destruction against mankind. Men, women, even children are butchered without remorse in the most horrible ways imaginable. All the while, this supposedly holy goddess wades ecstatically through human gore—up to her knees at first, and finally up to her throat. Throughout it all, she sadistically exults in her debauchery.

Benjamin grew pensive. He took several sips of his wine before he spoke, giving himself time to formulate a response. I’ve heard rumors, of course, that there is a lot of that kind of thing being uncovered from digs of the era. But tell me, as an archaeologist surely you have seen this type of thing before. Why are you so upset? It’s only myth.

The man stared at him with sad, unblinking eyes. "Are you absolutely certain of that?" was all he said.

Benjamin finished reading the account he’d written the day after his disconcerting dinner conversation with the French archaeologist and continued to slowly flip the pages of his journal. He wasn’t really reading now. It was more like the past two years of his life were passing before him. The strange and disconcerting things that he’d discovered during the course of his excursions, especially those he’d made out from Damascus, now seemed to make sense. Oddly, he felt both relief and fear.

Regardless of how often his training told him the story contained within the bundle of linen was too fantastic to be real, something inside him knew otherwise. The parchments were a stunningly accurate historical record, written by a man who had lived at the time Pontius Pilate ruled Judea, the southernmost Roman division of Palestine. There was, however, an enigma that could not be ignored.

The story was so detailed that it had to have been penned by someone who had lived through the incredible occurrences. And yet, that feat was impossible. The events chronicled covered a span of history of at least seventy-five hundred years; and no man, not even Methuselah, had ever lived that long.

Benjamin sighed again and reached for the bottle of wine he